


an obvious fact

by plingo_kat



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men walk into MI6 headquarters. Both of them are dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an obvious fact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madnorthbynorthwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnorthbynorthwest/gifts).



> While I... didn't quite make it to the sexy consenting, I hope you enjoy this anyway!

_Being an account of _______ _________, of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, in the year _____._

*

It was not the first time we had met.

I didn’t remember him, of course. When I walked into the bar I was by all accounts prepared to meet a stranger, and I did; his hair was coiffed, his eyes sharp. He held a drink in his hand which he sipped from, showing off the expensive watch on his wrist and the sharp lines of his tailored suit. Women were eyeing him – for good reason – and he was enjoying the attention.

“A martini, if you please,” I said to the bartender. It was presented in the particular way I liked martinis, shaken and not stirred, which prompted me to leave a generous tip. I then turned my attention to the man which, to my knowledge, I had never seen before.

“Hello,” I said. “Is that a Walther PPK you have underneath your jacket, or are you just happy to see me?”

*

The reason that I did not remember our first meeting – our _real_ first meeting – was because we had been on opposite sides of a dark room. Every so often one of us would fire, and in the echoing explosion of gunpowder bits and pieces of us would be illuminated; eyes the color of slate, the slope of a shoulder, a silhouette of a nose.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t touch. We only tried to kill one another, on opposite sides of an empty room, both of us in the dark.

*

“I must be happy to see you.” I had been warned to be careful around this man. It was easy to see why; his voice was poison under silk, charming and ready at any moment ready to bury a knife in your back. “I certainly don’t have illegal firearms anywhere about my person.”

“Of course not,” I agreed.

We sipped our drinks in silence.

“Let us dispense with the pleasantries,” he said abruptly. “You either wish to kill me or, ah, _seduce_ me to your cause, correct?”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“I know a like-minded man when I see one,” he said, and finished his drink.

“Do you?” I propped an elbow up on the bar, turning to smile at him from the corner of my eye. “What am I thinking now, then?”

“Something that will get us kicked out of this bar,” he said. I laughed.

“Perhaps we should leave, then.”

Those sharp eyes raked over me, evaluating, and then scanned the room. I decided to put his fears to rest.

“It’s only me and you here,” I assured him. “I thought it might make you more… amenable.”

His fingers twitched, reaching for his shoulder holster before he stilled them. I smiled even more slyly, more affably, and wondered how much more I would have to goad him until his control snapped. Maybe he would be able to reign in his temper and I would have to find another way to accomplish my goal.

“Who sent you?” he asked. “Was it her?”

He put a particular emphasis on ‘her,’ one that I knew well. Anyone who worked with the head of MI6 for longer than five minutes acquired a slightly dazed expression in her presence – three parts awe, two parts fear, one part revulsion. They spoke about her in hushed whispers, or with derisive scorn, but either way they always put that emphasis on her pronoun. She had a _presence_. It was something I greatly admired about her.

“I don’t work for her,” I said. 

He squinted, clearly disbelieving.

“I’m supposed to be dead,” I elaborated. “Just like you.”

This finally elicited a real reaction from my drinking partner. He laughed, a harsh bark of a sound.

“Did she order your death, then? Like she did mine?”

“Actually,” I said. “Yes.”

*

I had tried to look up information on my mysterious opponent once I reached safe haven. Who had the intelligence to go after my target? Who had the training, as I had training, to fight grimly against an opponent in the dark and get away clean?

Without an alias or a face, it was hopeless. There were too many killers in the world to find just the one.

But the man stuck in my mind.

*

“It’s a Trojan-Horse mission,” I explained once we had relocated to a lavish hotel room. We were each holding a glass of whiskey on the rocks; neither of us were drinking, still unwilling to allow alcohol to dull our reflexes. “We go in – return to the fold – plant our little gift, then get out and watch the fireworks.”

“Hm,” my companion said. I wondered if he was actually taking the bait. I certainly wouldn’t have.

“If you have concerns,” I added, “I am always open to suggestions.”

“She won’t trust us,” he said.

“Trust isn’t necessary.” I shrugged. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“There you go, then.”

He looked me over, gaze lingering on the areas of my body that could hold concealed weaponry. I shifted to give him a better view: hip cocked, shoulder braced to show off muscle. His lip quirked just the smallest amount, and I felt a thrill of victory.

Perhaps this would work after all.

*

I took a woman to bed that night, after the anonymous encounter with my fellow assassin. She was sweet and easy, and not nearly enough to satiate my hunger. I wanted to bite, grip her thighs until they bruised, draw blood – instead I was gentle and considerate and left her sleeping alone before the dawn.

*

While the plan was mine, it was my companion who sweet-talked us into MI6 headquarters. Each second was an exquisite agony of anticipation: would he turn on me now that we were here? Would we be detained by some overzealous, over-attentive underling before we reached our final destination? Would I need to kill some of these men, my former comrades?

I hoped that the answer to at least one of those questions was _yes_.

As we made our way down empty corridors, I swayed just enough to nudge my companion’s shoulder.

“This is a bit too easy, is it not?”

“A trap,” he said. “Definitely.”

“Well, then—”

 _Mister Bond,_ the PA system blared. My hand twitched toward my weapon before I stilled it. My companion had actually drawn his, though he placed it back in its holster just as quickly. _Please report to room one one six. Mister Bond, please report to room one one six._

“That’s interesting,” I said mildly.

By unspoken agreement, we did as the PA system instructed. As _she_ instructed, no doubt.

Room 116 was hauntingly familiar. The same wooden, industrial-office door; the same frosted glass windows; the same small plaque on the wall which said OFFICE, as if that wasn’t readily apparent.

“Like I’ve never even left,” I murmured.

My companion snorted. “You’ve been gone that long, have you?”

“It certainly feels like an eternity. Feel free to do the honors.”

He knocked politely, a quick one-two rap, and already had fingers around the handle when a voice called for us to come in.

It was like being hit in the chest. She looked older: the wrinkles around her eyes were deeper, her veins bluer and more prominent under her skin. But her eyes were sharp and cunning as ever.

“Double-oh-seven. How interesting to see you here. _Both_ of you.”

“Bond, reporting for duty,” my companion said. “I brought _him_ with me – he wants to kill you.”

“Yes, I imagine he does.” She gazed at me, the paths of her eyes slicing over my skin. “Hello, Tiago.”

I smiled.

*

_I, the undersigned, acknowledge that this account of events was disclosed by me willingly and without duress on the date of ________ __, ___. I understand that this information is confidential and shall not be imparted to any parties without the express approval of ________ ________, head director of _______._

_Signed,  
Tiago Silva_

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the quote “There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” ― Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Boscombe Valley Mystery._
> 
> The idea for the fic itself came from _A Study in Emerald_ by Neil Gaiman, which is a short story that I highly recommend.


End file.
